


Draco's Bad Day

by Maloreiy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Drama & Romance, F/M, Ministry of Magic, S&R:CRW, Slow Romance, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-10-27 19:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10815228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maloreiy/pseuds/Maloreiy
Summary: Draco is having a bad day. In fact, every day is a bad day because he’s been trying (unsuccessfully) to convince himself he’s not in love with Hermione Granger, who is engaged to Ron (the prat) Weasley. Except that all of a sudden she’s not. And Draco’s about to have more good and bad days than he had ever expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a cross-posting of a work that is currently on FFN and H&V and being updated. It is rated Explicit for much later chapters, and so it is locked and only available to registered users. The non-explicit (but still mature) version is available on FFN. 
> 
> This fic will be uploaded at one chapter per week, hopefully on Thursday. My plan is to be able to keep it steady at once per week all the way through to the end, which I estimate to be somewhere around 40 chapters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco is having a bad day

Draco Malfoy was having a bad day. Not that all of his days weren’t routinely within the spectrum of unenjoyable, but what had started out on a normal level of disagreeableness quickly degraded into full-fledged lousiness.

He knew he was behind on his paperwork. Even with magical means, it somehow seemed a never-ending task to correctly fill out the lengthy forms and reports and file them with the appropriate departments. The red tape of the Ministry’s bureaucracy never failed to bring out his well-known sneer of disgust. To then have to spend several hours of his morning listening to the self-important drone of one of the Minister’s pets on the importance of 'timely fulfilling responsibilities' only served to make his wand-fingers twitch to cast an obnoxious (but not illegal, and certainly not Dark) spell on the sanctimonious twit.

After finally extricating himself from the unwanted and interminable lecture, he unfortunately ended up in a department meeting for Aurors where he had to listen to one of Potter’s (“Potter.”) famous spontaneous pep talks designed to motivate the masses and inspire them to higher levels of efficiency. Because it’s not enough to save the entire Wizarding World once, he must needs do it over and over again. And like chumps, they all ate it up. Every time.

Draco was a good Auror. A fantastic one, in fact, if the truth be known. But after several years of going through his partners like a particularly bad box of Every Flavor Beans, he found himself the only Auror approved to operate solo, and as such, ended up with some of the trickiest assignments for a single person. And of course, he had to handle all of the resultant paperwork entirely by himself.

At one point he’d hired a secretary to do the work for him, and she was quite good at her job, as well as being rather easy on the eyes. But Potter forced him to get rid of her, stating that if he wanted someone to do paperwork with that badly, he could jolly well manage to keep a partner for more than a week.

So no secretary. Loads of paperwork. Having to listen to Potter and pretend he was excited for another year of thankless risk-taking. And then, **_and then_** , the Minister of Magic, thinking (correctly, actually) that Draco was planning on skipping out on yet another Ministry Ball, had the gall to stop him in the halls and inform him in no uncertain tones that his presence would be required that evening.

To top it all off, he even implied that Draco needed to take extra care to dress appropriately. Just remembering the unwarranted comment had Draco’s lip lifting in a sneer. As if a Malfoy ever needed to be told to dress appropriately for any occasion, let alone a ball!

He twitched the sleeves of his black dress robes—made of the most expensive unicorn silk and tailored perfectly to fit to his form in the most flattering of ways—as he reached for the glass of Firewhiskey. He pointedly avoided looking at the well-dressed couple that had just entered the room, knowing that, as always, all eyes were drawn to watch them approach.

They were the Wizarding World’s Golden Couple (confusing when you consider they are both also part of the Golden Trio, but once you go gold, apparently there’s not much better you can compare to)—war heroes gracing the cover of every magazine because of their storybook romance, begun in the innocence of childhood, tested in the fire of warfare, and now basking in the glow of happily ever after.

Draco snorted at his glass of Firewhiskey, still refusing to look their direction.

She was the reason this day had just dropped into the bowels of Bad Day hell. He tried to avoid seeing her whenever possible. Not to where he’d cut her in the hallways, but to where if he knew she was walking down the corridor, he might just casually take a different route or find an errand he had to run that would prevent them from crossing paths.

When he had first joined the Auror program, after his exile and probationary period, he was not greeted warmly. There were many who still believed he was working for the Dark Side, and even those who didn’t, were unable to forgive his actions (or sometimes lack thereof) in the war. There were few who wanted to be his partner, and even fewer who wanted to be his friend.

Draco Malfoy had never had any real friends (minions really don’t count), so he didn’t feel the lack too much.

But then _She_ had begun talking to him.

Hermione Granger: war heroine, brightest witch of the age, and apparently a trendsetter. When coming to visit Ron Weasley for lunch, or on routine daily errands in the Ministry, she often made it a point to casually stop by Draco’s desk. At first her off-hand remarks and greetings were met with stony silence.

Frankly, it was the best Draco could do, since the first things to come to his mind were both unkind and illegal in the current government. Though he no longer believed in the words with the fervor of his youth (sometimes he wondered if he ever truly believed them, actually), he knew that saying them aloud would undo all of the hard work he had gone through to make himself accepted in present Wizarding society.

But Granger, probably because she _was_ the brightest witch of the age, found a couple of topics that couldn’t help but pull a response from him, and before long he found himself having conversations with at least one of the Golden Trio. Usually on academic topics that had interested them both in school, such as politics, or the benefits and consequences of borderline grey spells (this after a particularly lengthy investigation into Draco’s use of one of those same spells, an investigation of which he was acquitted with honor, by the way). She never talked about their less than amicable past, and she never talked to him as if he was still connected with it. He found the lack of bitterness refreshing. He found her company refreshing.

It wasn’t surprising when he soon found himself engaging in the occasional conversation with both Potter and Weasley. Mostly Potter, who went out of his way to preach about the new Wizarding society having room for all witches and wizards, regardless of birth (which somehow backwardly applied to Draco also), and so probably felt a duty to converse with him. Weasley was not much for words, and was content to glare at him, a feeling which Draco shared but never showed, because unlike the ill-bred Weasel he at least attempted to show respect for the company he was in by not glowering at people in public.

A lesson hard learned, really, when you consider his history. Glowering does not make you friends. Or win you wars.

It had been on the heels of another awful day, actually, when he had come face to face with the terrible truth that now haunted him on evenings like this one, with a Firewhiskey in his hand, and somewhere behind him a beaming Hermione Granger on the arm of a doting Ron Weasley.

He’d just spent the day sorting out the awful mess left behind by his most recent ex-partner, alternately cursing in rage and kicking his wastebasket. He was ready to go home and was literally just about to gather his things and exit when Granger walked in. She took one look at his desk, the empty chair opposite his, and his scowl, and her expression broke into a commiserating smile.

“That bad?” She’d looked a little amused as she said it.

To this day he didn’t know what made him do it, but his mouth opened, and he let loose a descriptive stream of frustration and anger as if they were truly friends. He supposed that’s what she’d been intending all along, but he had never considered any of them as more than casual work acquaintances. Until that moment, it seemed.

He would never forget—could never forget—that moment when she’d stepped to him and touched his arm—a gesture so casual she must frequently use it when comforting others, but not with him, never before with him. When she looked up at him, her expression so sincere, he was momentarily lost in the depths of those warm, chocolate eyes. He felt something foreign in the vicinity of the heart that no one believed he still had. It was warm and bright and powerful, and later, when he could finally put a word to it, he would think of it as a yearning.

All he knew at the time was that the touch on his arm seemed to sear his skin, and the smell of her hair closer than it had ever been caused his stomach to flutter, and his muscles to tense, and his breath to clog up in his throat.

He almost missed what she said, so caught up was he in the overwhelming sensations of her presence.

“You need an equal, Malfoy. I’m sorry to say you might never find it in the department as it is. Sometimes when you outshine others, you have to work alone to do your best work. Others will just slow you down.” Then she’d smiled at him, grinning like they shared a joke, and against his will, without any thought, actually, he smiled back down at her.

He didn’t know it at the time, but that was actually the last partner he’d rage over. He refused all later offers and assignments to partners, insisting on working alone, until Potter finally approved it.

But that night he’d gone home to his 'flat' in Wizarding London (if you could call the mansion-sized loft a flat), and the thought struck him that he’d had a good day. Confused, since he distinctly remembered having an awful day, he thought back to why he could possibly feel rather light and happy.

When it hit him, he actually dropped the bottle of Firewhiskey onto the kitchen tiles, the sinking, tearing sensation in the vicinity of that same heart no one believed he had suddenly making the room seem claustrophobic. When he could breathe again, he cursed fluidly for several minutes. He didn’t even bother with cleaning up the mess of Firewhiskey on the floor, he simply grabbed another bottle and spent the next several hours in a state of inebriation that still couldn’t eradicate the feel of her hand on his arm.

For several weeks, he thought he could just ignore it, or at least pretend like it didn’t exist. He had the same short conversations with Granger when she would swing by the Aurors’ offices, and he didn’t change any part of his routine. But then he noticed himself waiting for her to stop by, and then watching her as she left. He felt absurd streaks of triumph if he could get her to laugh, sometimes even going so far as to tease her a tiny bit.

And then one day she walked towards his desk, a big smile on her face, and that yearning that he felt whenever she smiled at him, grew so strong and wrapped around him so tight, it threatened to choke him. His fingers twitched with the effort of keeping him from reaching out. His stomach was so twisted into knots, he didn’t even trust himself to speak. She didn’t notice because she was excited about the promotion she’d just been told she would be receiving. She felt that finally all of her hard work was being recognized, and in her excitement and nervousness she never noticed Draco’s hands clamped on the arms of his chair, his eyes dark with the desire to be the one with the right to scoop her up in a hug, and then plant an enthusiastic kiss on her smiling mouth—the way Ron Weasley did when he came up to congratulate her on the news.

Somehow, and he’d never figured out how, he managed a smile, and a “Congratulations, you deserve it” before she was whisked away to raucous cheering.

And when everyone had left, Draco remained seated in his chair. He dropped his head onto his desk, and cursed again. Not loudly. Not expansively. But quietly, and with feeling.

That was over a year ago. And in that time, Draco had been very careful to treat her with the utmost courtesy during those times that he was forced into her company. Being assigned his own office meant he rarely had to see her traipsing casually through the Aurors’ floor. He might go days or even weeks without seeing those cinnamon curls, and he would begin to delude himself into believing that it didn’t matter anymore, and it was just a ridiculous notion he’d taken into his head one drunk night.

But then he would see her in the corridors, or at a meeting, and his heart would beat so hard he was sure she could hear it, and he wanted to run before she looked up and read his feelings in his eyes. He could never have her. And he could never, ever, ever let on to anyone that he wanted her. There was no forgiveness large enough for the sin of Death Eater Draco Malfoy coveting Golden Girl Hermione Granger, future wife of the beloved Ron Weasley. The only sin bigger would be coveting Harry Potter’s wife, Ginny Weasley-Potter, a possibility that thankfully was as remote as him marrying a house-elf.

As he sourly repeated his mantra that Death Eaters did not desire Mudbloods (silently, of course, where no one could hear the self-loathing), he downed his glass of Firewhiskey, knowing that being unable to avoid the Ball meant he would be facing Hermione Granger at least once this night. Because if he knew her, and he liked to think that he certainly knew her better than that joke of a fiancé, she would make it a point to come up to him.

He briefly thought about changing locations throughout the night, making it hard to pin him down, but quickly gave up the idea, knowing that if Granger wanted to find him, she would.

It was halfway through the night, and Draco was all the way towards drunk, when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and she sat down on the chair beside him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R Movement: CONSTRUCTIVE REVIEWS WELCOME (CRW)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione appears, making Draco's day sort of better. But kind of worse. But also better. But actually worse.  
> AND  
> In which Ron appears, making everyone's day worse.

“Malfoy,” she said, by way of greeting. She was wearing a stunning dress of gold (of course), that shimmered in the low lighting of the magical crystal chandeliers, and he deliberately refused to notice that when she sat the slit in the side revealed the slightest peek of her thigh.

“Granger,” he acknowledged, his voice husky with Firewhiskey and the trembles that danced through his body whenever she was near. He looked in her direction but didn’t quite look at her, being too busy with trying to ignore whatever scent she was wearing that seemed to want to slide under his skin.

She smiled a half-smile and said, “It’s been a while,” to try to break the ice. But Draco was having none of it, and just sort of nodded abruptly, not finding it in himself to be directly rude. Not to her, who was regularly the only person who was ever genuinely nice to him.

After ordering a drink, she let out a sigh. “Malfoy—” she began, before he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“I know, Granger.”

Surprised, but not offended by his taciturn ways, she raised one eyebrow and asked, “You do, do you?”

Picking up his empty glass and looking into it as if more Firewhiskey were going to magically appear inside (which it might, you never know), he stated with authority, “You’re going to thank me for saving Weasley’s life. Which is a part of my job. And which I did.” And he added, with only the slightest hint of bitterness, “Because I’m good at my job.”

His Firewhiskey glass did not magically refill, but another glass magically appeared in front of him, so he figured that was just as good, and he began to work at making it look just as empty as its twin.

From Granger there was a brief silence, followed by quiet words. “That’s not the way I heard it, Malfoy.” More silence. “I heard that Ron could not be saved. That you went against orders, fended off three Dark Wizards at once, and hurled him to safety when the spell went off. And the only reason you made it out was the Patronus you cast before you collapsed was one of the brightest witnessed on the field.”

Draco toyed with his now-empty glass and said ruefully, “Sounds like you should be writing my reports for me.”

There was a tsking sound from Granger that caused him to look up, immediately regretting the choice as her eyes stared straight into him, making him wonder if the burning in his throat was actually from the Firewhiskey. He quickly looked back down, shaking his head briefly.

“Malfoy, it was no little thing,” she said, thinking he meant to shake off his heroic actions. She delicately sipped from her drink, and then tapped her fingers on the countertop, choosing her words carefully. “I know that the Department will thank you. And I know that even Ron might speak to you after this.” She smiled a little smile at her joke, the smile fading quickly as she saw he didn’t respond. “But I just wanted you to know that I see you, for who you are, and I thank you. For your bravery every day. But for that day, especially, I thank you.”

Draco set his glass down, gently, trying to calm the maelstrom of feelings that swirled inside him at her words. Knowing she expected some sort of response, he just sighed, and said, “I know, Granger.” He chanced a quick glance at her, before looking back down at his empty glasses, knowing and hating that she understood him well enough to hear that her words truly affected him.

Of course, she didn’t know—couldn’t know—that when he went after Weasley single-mindedly, jeopardizing his Auror career and his life in one fool-hardy sweep, that all he could think about was that Granger was waiting somewhere for Weasley to come home, and he could never, ever look at her again if he didn’t find a way to make that happen.

And when he thought he was dead, it was the thought of her hand on his arm, the thought of her face tilted up towards his, that allowed him to conjure a Patronus shield for the first time, in a last desperate attempt to save himself.

So her words and her thanks cut into him, driving his self-loathing, in a way she could never understand. He saved Ron Weasley because he was in love with his girl. Pathetic.

As she walked away, carrying her drink, he wondered if it was possible this day could get any worse.

* * *

 

It was well on towards midnight when Draco went on a mission to find the loo. Some quack kept changing its location as the ballroom underwent constant construction. Sometimes it had a bright sign pointing right at it, and sometimes it was hidden away in a tiny, dark corner as if using the loo were a disgraceful, inhuman act.

Since the obvious locations did not yield the appropriate results, Draco was currently betting on the dark corners of the excessively decorated woodsy theme, figuring that even if he was unsuccessful, a tree might do just as well.

It was in one such dark corner that he stumbled upon an amorous couple in a heated embrace. He should have been alerted by the faint scuffling sounds that he had not found the loo, but being a tad too drunk, and more than a tad too obsessed with self-recriminating thoughts, he didn’t notice until he had literally bumped into them.

Wands were pulled on instinct, the couple grappling furiously at loose clothing, and in the faint wandlight, he was so surprised at what he saw that he temporarily forgot to remain silent, and blurted out, “Weasley?”

It was the Weasel all right. His messy hair was standing out every which way and he had lipstick all over his face. The thought passed fleetingly through Draco’s mind that Hermione never wore that much lipstick, when it finally clicked in his mind that the female huddled against Ron, her face turned away from the wandlight, was not wearing a gold dress that sparkled in the light. And she didn’t have cinnamon colored curls that smelled like heaven.

And in that moment Draco Malfoy felt a burning anger and disgust such as he had never felt in his life. Despite the alcohol in his bloodstream, every one of his senses were on alert, as if for battle, his wand hand ready to let fly the Darkest of curses, if necessary.

“Weasley,” he ground out, tones laced with an acrid loathing, this time not a question, but a confirmation.

Ron grinned sheepishly, and said, “Just a bit of fun, mate,” by way of an excuse. His attempt at lightening the mood only caused Draco to glare at him more stonily, prompting Ron, ever the bumbler, to elaborate more fully. “Near-death experience, and all.” As Draco’s eyes narrowed, Ron blurted a hasty, “Thanks for the save, by the way.”

The girl in the lavender dress made a small, distressed, whimpering sound, her body still rigid, afraid to turn around. Draco growled a low, “You’re despicable, Weasley.”

Ron responded with a look of hurt, “Now, Dra—Malfoy,” he quickly corrected at Draco’s look, “a man’s just been through a crazy experience, and sometimes just needs to,” his eyes darted towards the girl still clutched in his arms, “blow off some steam,” he finished lamely. “Yeah?”

Draco lowered his wand to his side, vibrating with unreleased anger, the desire to use his fists to smash the look off Weasley’s face the most prominent thought in his head.

Then Ron made the mistake of haltingly asking, “You—you won’t tell Hermione, will you?”

With lightning fast reflexes, Draco hexed him, slashing him across the cheek, through the smears of lipstick, leaving a tiny thin line of blood. Ron didn’t retaliate; he just stared at Draco in shock.

The hex felt good, but couldn’t be nearly enough to soothe the rage he was feeling. With his wand pointed at Ron’s throat, Draco took a few deep breaths, no doubt causing Ron to wonder if he would Avada him. But all he said was, “It’s none of my business.”

Before Ron could exhale in relief, though, Draco continued, “But Hermione’s not stupid. She’s the ‘brightest witch of the age’, and will eventually figure out what I have always known…that you are just a Weasel.” This last word was spat with as much contempt as Draco could muster. “She doesn’t need me to tell her.”

And just as Draco was thinking this was absolutely the worst night of his life, and he was going to need a lot more Firewhiskeys, he heard a soft, quavering voice behind him.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Malfoy. But, clearly I’m not the brightest witch of the age, am I?”

Since his eyes were still trained on Weasley’s face, he saw the look of surprise and fear that crossed it. He didn’t need to look behind him to know she was there, beautiful in her gold dress, a look of profound hurt on her face. He could hear the tears in her voice. And if the rage he felt before was blinding, he was now like the sun ready to explode with massive destruction.

He yelled loudly in frustration, a roar of helplessness and uncertainty, causing the girl to whimper louder and clutch at Ron.

And in the echoing silence after, Draco whispered, “ _Petrificus Totalus_.”

Then he said, “They’re all yours,” over his shoulder, and without looking at _Her_ , he walked away, quest for the loo forgotten. He ignored the questioning glances and the excited chatter, and when he exited the building, he promptly Apparated to his flat where his newfound sobriety was fought back glass by glass.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R Movement: CONSTRUCTIVE REVIEWS WELCOME (CRW)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione surprises Draco, and Draco surprises himself

It was more than a month before he saw her again. Like the rest of the world, he was aware of the unfolding story of the breakup of Weasley and Granger, sensationalized though it was in the pages of _Witch Weekly_ and the other tawdry magazines. The picture Granger had arranged to appear in the front pages the day after the Ministry Ball showed a fearful Ron Weasley coming out of the Petrificus Totalus spell, incriminating evidence still on his face (and clinging to his side). Undeniably embarrassing for the whole Weasley family (other pictures included a very pregnant Ginny Potter being restrained by her husband from launching herself in anger at her youngest brother), the picture ensured that there would not be a reconciliation.

In the ensuing stories, it became more and more clear that Ron Weasley was not the good guy everyone thought he was, but was, in fact, the Weasel that Draco had always believed he was. He didn’t know how many of the girls who claimed to have slept with the Weasel actually had, but he did know that the one in the lavender dress (conveniently named Lavender, so he wouldn’t forget, and who was apparently one of his old classmates) did not hold anything back when claiming her new place at the side of Ron (Won-Won) Weasley.

To the credit of even the bloodthirsty journalists, none of the stories were sympathetic towards the Weasel. Wizarding society may have loved Ron Weasley, but they clearly loved Hermione Granger more (a sentiment of which Draco wholeheartedly approved of). It helped that Harry Potter was quoted as coming out unequivocally on Granger’s side. No one would dare choose sides against Harry Potter, in light of the fate of the last Dark wizard to do so. Except, apparently, Lavender Brown, who was clearly as stupid as her name.

He didn’t like how the tabloids painted Granger as a pathetic dupe, though. Her tear-streaked face was always front-page news, followed by a pathetic story about how she must have been completely oblivious to Ron’s less-than-faithful ways. Whenever he saw those pictures, he felt the same rage he’d felt on that night, along with the strongly held belief that those tears ravaging her face were a travesty to all that was good in the world (a category that possibly began and ended with her, anyway). Despite his rage, he devoured all the news, reveling in the condemnation of the Weasel and scouring them for word of what Granger was doing now.

He cheered when he saw she’d moved into a place of her own. He laughed aloud when he saw the picture of her biting the head off of a chocolate frog, holding up a picture of the card with Ron Weasley’s face that came inside the package. And when he saw the picture of Ginny and Harry Potter happily displaying ‘Baby Jamie’ from the maternity ward at St. Mungo's, being held in the arms of proud Auntie Hermione, he softly traced the lines of her face as the magical image of her looked directly at the camera, beaming from ear to ear.

To be fair, there were later pictures of Ron with his newest nephew and Harry, but those pictures were sans Hermione, and sans Ginny, and Harry’s face always looked strained. Harry and Ron may have been best friends for many years and legendary Auror partners, but what few people truly understood was that Hermione was Harry’s only sister, the very closest family he had outside of his wife and new son. Draco knew what few people knew, that when the chips were down, Ron had weakened, and Hermione had never once faltered. Ron was no doubt surprised to discover that Harry’s loyalty, while unswerving, could be divided and found in favor of Hermione.

It was yet to be seen what would happen to their Auror partnership. Harry had taken more than the necessary time off for paternity leave, ostensibly to spend as much time as possible with his wife and child, but the whole department was waiting to see if the breakup of Weasley and Granger also meant the breakup of Weasley and Potter.

Draco knew, from those same papers, that after a short period of time off, Hermione Granger was back at work and busily righting the wrongs of the world by ensuring the rights of all Magical Creatures. But it still took him by surprise when she showed up in his office.

She stood a little awkwardly in the doorframe, her hair pulled tightly back in a ponytail. The severity of her black pencil skirt and very proper white blouse would have made her seem stern if it wasn’t for the tentative expression on her face. “Malfoy?” she called softly.

The quill in Draco’s hand paused in its motion before he slowly looked up at her. He had been caught up in the recollection of events he was reporting on and so his concentration was a little hazy. He recognized her voice, but for a split second he thought he had imagined it. His finely trained Auror senses quickly ruled that out, and he needed the brief pause to collect himself, his heartbeat speeding up as he thought about her presence in his office.

He looked up at her, slowly setting his quill down, but didn’t get up from the desk. “Granger.” His greeting was neutral, the tone slightly questioning, unsure of what her purpose was. Unsure of what he wanted it to be.

She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, possibly the only curl that dared to escape the confines of her ponytail; a tiny sign of her hesitance. With a quick glance behind her, she stepped inside. “I—I just thought I’d—I wanted to,” she started, stammering slightly, clearly nervous.

Draco didn’t say anything, didn’t move a muscle, and watched her visibly collect herself and stand up a tad straighter. She confidently walked back to the door and shut it softly before walking over to the chair in front of his desk and sitting down. She fiddled with her skirt for a moment before she brought her head up to look at him, his eyes focused on her intently.

She gave him a small, rueful smile. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” The statement was ridiculous, since he was clearly at work, and therefore clearly being disturbed, and he didn’t bother answering it because she disturbed him all the time, wherever she was, and there was no good reason to bring that up. “Well, at least not too much,” she amended.

She reached over to touch the Golden Snitch that was on display on his desk, her fingers stopping just short of touching it, realizing she was looking for an excuse to keep her hand occupied. When she looked at him with an almost apology for nearly touching his things, he quirked an eyebrow at her, and she gave him a real genuine smile, causing his heart to beat off rhythm for a moment.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve just been,” and she paused, a shadow passing through her eyes, “out of sorts, lately.” She quickly looked down, knowing she was making an understatement. She took a deep breath, before she began, “I just wanted—”

“You’d better not be thanking me for saving Weasley’s life again,” he interrupted her. “I’m beginning to think it wasn’t a very good choice, after all.”

She blinked at that, and shook her head, causing her curls to bounce behind her. “Well, not that I think you should have left him to die, or anything.” A brief glimpse of humor in her tone. “But no, that wasn’t what I wanted to thank you for.”

Draco felt a churning in his stomach, as he thought of the last few weeks of stories in the papers, knowing the perfect life she’d thought she had, had just been turned upside down. No thanks to him, no help from him, not even any sympathy from him. “Granger, I have done nothing for you that you could possibly be thanking me for.”

At this statement, she looked at him earnestly, “Oh, but you have!” He couldn’t bring himself to look away from her, wishing there really was something he could have done for her.

“That night,” she began, and there was no need to explain which night she meant, “it’s like a nightmare to me. I asked myself so many times if it could possibly be real.” She stopped to think for a minute, deciding how she could say what she hadn’t been able to tell anyone else yet.

“I think I knew immediately, though, that it was real. I think,” she paused, glancing at the closed door, “I think I may have always known. They say I’m the brightest witch of the age, so how could I not know? But even the brightest can be fools, I guess. I think I was just hoping that I was wrong, pretending that everything was okay.” She tugged at the hem of her skirt again, an excuse to look down and not at him. She was ashamed of herself, her words reflecting the type of self-loathing Draco was intimately familiar with.

Draco couldn’t imagine why she was telling him this. They were only the most casual of friends, occasionally sharing a deeper moment. He didn’t have a reputation for being sympathetic or caring, and if she was seeking comfort, there was very little he would be able to do that Potter and She-Potter wouldn’t have done better.

“The tabloids all like to show how…devastated … I am,” she stumbled a bit over the well-used adjective. “I think I feel vastly more disappointed in myself. For being one of those girls. One of those foolish girls. One of those weak girls who can’t face unpleasant truths. And one of those ridiculous girls that gets wronged, and then blames herself.” Her words were coming out a little faster, a little stronger.

Incensed, Draco blurted out, not caring about diplomacy, “You are not to blame that Weasel is an idiot!”

He was rewarded for his outburst with a small grin from Hermione, “No, I know that. I mean, I think I know that. In my head, I know that. I say almost the same thing to myself every day, actually.” Appeased, Draco resolved to hold his tongue, watching her face slowly fade from the grin. “It’s just hard, sometimes, to feel like,” she licked her lips carefully, “I could have been better at being a girlfriend. At being a fiancée.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Draco bit out, his eyes hard, his tone brooking no contradiction. “Weasley wouldn’t know quality if it stole his wand and hexed him with it! It’s an unfortunate failing of Weasleys everywhere, and he clearly had more than his fair share.”

Hermione actually laughed at that. “Watch it, some of my best friends are Weasleys.”

For a second, Draco thought she meant that she was still on friendly terms with Ron, and he was prepared to be horrified. Then he realized she meant all the rest of the Weasleys who were surely like family to her. “Well, maybe he inherited Ginny’s share, too,” he begrudgingly admitted, “She’s a Potter now, anyway, and don’t tell him I said this, but Potter is,” he nearly choked on the words, “a quality guy.”

“Why, Malfoy,” she teased, “that was almost affectionate.”

“I take it back,” he grumbled. “I hate him and the broom he flew in on.”

She laughed again, sending a thrill down his spine, and making it difficult for him to keep his surly face. “Much too late, Malfoy. I see right through you.”

At that, he looked in her eyes again, wondering if she really could. Wondering how badly he wanted her to. He was relieved, though, to see that some of the shadows were gone from the few seconds of levity they had just shared.

“Malfoy,” she began again, less unsure this time, “I wanted to thank you,” and here she ignored the slight growl he emitted, raising her voice to continue uninterrupted, “for your anger.” She knew she had his attention, and confused, he could think of no response.

She elaborated. “I was upset that night. I daresay I was a bit angry. But mostly I was hurt. I was disappointed in Ron, and in myself. And in all the days afterwards, people felt sorry for me. And people were disgusted. And people have tiptoed around me. And people have offered to pummel Ron for me.”

“Dibs,” Malfoy said, causing Hermione to lose track of her thoughts for a second at the Muggle saying that popped out of his mouth.

Distracted, she said, “Actually, I think George did it pretty well, and seemed to take quite the joy from doing it, really.”

At the grunt of disappointment from Malfoy, she laughed again. “George really loves Ron, though. So does Ginny. Harry, of course.” Malfoy’s snort clearly expressed what he thought of those sentiments, and she continued, “I feel like, in time, everyone will eventually forgive him, and go back to loving him.”

“I will not,” Malfoy declared unequivocally, emboldened by her acceptance of his disparaging remarks.

“I know,” Hermione said, quietly. “I’m afraid sometimes that I might. But I think of your anger that night. I hear that truly frightening roaring sound you made, and I see the streak of blood across Ron’s scared face from when you hexed him, and it reminds me that I was not to blame. That Ron is responsible for his own cowardice. That I deserve to be angry.  That someone who never loved Ron and never loved me can see it as clear as day, and be moved to anger. I wasn’t thinking it then, but over the last few weeks, when I start to get confused as to what I ought to be feeling, I remember that anger, and it makes me feel whole again.”

Draco didn’t know how to answer her. She assumed his anger was over injustice, and had nothing to do with feelings for her. She had no way of knowing that if it had been anyone else, he might not have batted an eye. His fury was at the callous disregard for what Weasley didn’t realize was his most precious possession: the trust and love of Hermione Granger.

She continued. “Ron wants to get back together with me.” The snarling sound escaped Draco before he could think better of it.

Fortunately, she took it as a general expression of disgust, and waved him off. “No, I won’t do it. But sometimes I feel pressure from the people around me to make up and play nice, so everything can go back to how it was. But I can’t. I know I don’t seem angry. But I am. I’m furious. I just, I can’t always pull it up. So I use yours. And it gives me strength to justify moving forward and not looking back.”

After this revelation, she seemed to realize how awkward it sounded. Her eyes widened a bit, and she backtracked, “I just—I kind of thought—I wanted you to know, that whatever people say about that night, I’m glad to feel like you were on my side, and no one else’s. Even if, well, I mean, that might not have been exactly what you were feeling, but it mattered to me, anyway.” She looked at him, then, anxiously waiting for a response, wondering if maybe she had just made herself look even more foolish.

He just stared at her, that yearning he always felt growing into something he didn’t even recognize. When he finally trusted his voice to speak, he repeated her words, “Your side. And no one else’s.” It felt uncomfortably like a vow, so he clarified. “That’s what I was feeling. That night.”

And the smile bloomed on her face, tinged with relief. Draco realized that if they weren’t friends before, surely they must be now. Hermione Granger seemed to need some friends, and it was surreal for him to think he might be able to count himself among them.

She stood up to go, the words that had driven her to seek him out still lingering in the air. Her hand was on the door, opening it, when Draco, unable to restrain himself, called out, “Were you going to be at the Ministry dinner tonight?”

She looked back at him and made a face, her nose scrunching up adorably. “Don’t tell Kingsley but I was planning on avoiding it, actually. I can think of very little worse than pretending to play nice while everyone mutters ‘Poor, Hermione!’ under their breaths.” She amended that statement with, “Unless, of course, it’s having to sit at the same table as Ron and Lavender at the same time.”

Draco had been intending on avoiding the dinner as well. Shacklebolt had threatened him with (near) bodily harm if he didn’t attend, but after the last time, he didn’t see how the threats could possibly be worse than the attending. So even he was surprised when he said, “I have to go, unfortunately.”

Granger made a little apologetic sound, her hand still on the now-open door.

Draco was telling himself to shut his mouth, but somehow he just kept talking. “You could go with me.”

Confusion showed in her eyes, and her jaw dropped a little bit at the unexpected request.

“I know better than anyone the desire to run away from bad press.” He lightly alluded to his family’s doings in the war, of course. “Hiding never helps.” He could see her face start to get indignant at the idea that she was hiding. “Go on the offensive. You’re Hermione Granger. You don’t back down. You go to every Ministry function, and you own it. You wear the best dress. You eat all the food in front of you. You dance when appropriate. You’re the brightest witch of the age, and he’s just a Weasel, and she’s just a skanky bint who wears too much lipstick to cover her own inadequacies.”

At that, she smiled, looking out the doorway, and then looking back at him. “She does wear too much lipstick, doesn’t she?” she conceded.

“Skanky bint,” Malfoy repeated, emphasizing each word.

Granger contemplated his request, and then she clearly reached a resolution, because she took a deep breath and said, “Okay, you’re right. I’ll go. I’ll go with you.” She mumbled under her breath, “Merlin, I’m going to need a dress,” as she walked out without saying goodbye.

Draco’s excitement soared at her acquiescence, more than he had thought possible when the idea crossed his mind and ran out of his mouth without a filter. He tried to tamp the feelings down, reminding himself that it was just a Ministry dinner. But he could no longer concentrate on his paperwork, so he called it a day, and left to stare at his wardrobe wondering if he should make an effort to wear anything but black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R Movement: CONSTRUCTIVE REVIEWS WELCOME (CRW)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione and Draco surprise everyone else

In the end, Draco wore much the same thing he would normally wear at a Ministry function: high-quality, black dress robes. The only concession to the night that he would allow himself was a Slytherin pendant draped around his neck on a silver chain. To him, being a Slytherin spoke of quiet power. When he wore it, people tended not to look him in the eye. He thought it fitting, since most people thought he should be ashamed of his heritage, and though he didn’t always flaunt it, he would never allow their viewpoint to become his own. He did wonder, briefly, if he was purposely testing Hermione to see if she would be uncomfortable with it. He needn’t have worried.

They had arranged to simply meet at the Ministry, and Draco had strategically arrived early to choose an advantageous seat. Or so he told himself, refusing to believe that he wanted to ensure that Granger wouldn’t have to spend a moment alone, or unsupported, in the shark-infested waters of the Ministry crowd.

She didn’t see him when she walked in, so she didn’t notice the shock on his face. She was wearing a brilliantly emerald dress—expensive, sexy, and uncompromisingly proud—vastly different from her usual conservative neutrals. Her chestnut curls, piled on top of her head, seemed to gleam with the slightest of reddish tints and he realized there were jewels dancing in her hair, radiating light.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen Granger’s knees before, Wizarding styles being anything but risqué. But in this Muggle dress he was treated to the sight of quite a bit of leg, and as she turned around, clearly looking for someone, he saw the open expanse of her back, covered prettily with the black lace ties that draped from where it was fastened around her neck.

He had told her to wear the best dress. In that moment, Draco couldn’t think of any dress, Wizarding or Muggle, which could beat Hermione Granger’s. She was fabulously sexy, and she didn’t even notice the admiring glances sent her way, so intent was she on searching the room.

It took a moment for Draco to realize that she was looking for him, and the thought that she was there, for him, wearing that dress, for him, sent hot streaks fluttering through his stomach. He reminded himself that she was not wearing it for him, she was wearing it for herself. But he could certainly enjoy the sight.

As he moved toward her, a glass of wine in his hand, she noticed him and her face lit up with a smile. He didn’t return it, knowing that Malfoy with a silly grin on his face would be highly remarked upon. Instead, he kept his eyes intent on hers, and when he reached her, he inclined his head briefly, offering her the glass of wine.

She looked at him a little shyly, and whispered, “I had to look all afternoon, but do you think I got it right?” He could tell she was resisting the urge to tug on her much-higher-than-usual hemline. “The dress, I mean,” she clarified, as if he didn’t already know what she meant.

“If you wanted the Weasel’s eyes to fall out of his head, yes,” he returned, and she smiled at that. “If you wanted Lav-Lav to cry tears of inadequacy that she could never look so beautiful, then also yes.” She smirked a bit at his use of Lavender’s ridiculous self-appointed nickname.

“And if you wanted to show the Ministry and the entire Wizarding World that Hermione Granger is a force to be reckoned with who needs no man to define her, then absolutely, yes, you got it right.” She made a little hum of approval, and with a show of spirit, she took his arm, for him to walk her to their table.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” she said, “I can’t walk in these heels too well, so I’m going to have to use you to hold me up.”

“Well, I suppose that’s my job for the evening, then,” he responded in good humor, his eyes just catching with hers, feeling light at the sensation of Hermione Granger looking like a goddess, hanging on his arm and joking with him.

“Actually, your job is to make snarky comments and remind me why I have every right to be mad.”

“A task I excel at, fortunately, allowing me plenty of time to also serve as a prop to hold you up.” She giggled quietly at that.

Draco wondered if this was what it was like to have someone on your side. To share jokes, to make plans, to declare war on everyone else. He was afraid to enjoy it too much, being too used to fighting a one-man battle.

The evening meal progressed very normally. There were countless courses offered to them, and Draco did his part to keep up a colorful commentary on anyone whom Hermione so much as frowned at. Before long, she wasn’t frowning anymore; she was trying very hard not to laugh loudly at his all too perceptive and frequently unkind observations.

“You’re really very mean,” she said, enjoying herself immensely, for the first time in many weeks.

“If you think that was bad, wait until you hear what I have to say about that incredibly tacky ensemble Lav-Lav deceived herself into thinking was attractive.” He watched her face fall a little, as his pointed words alerted her to the fact that Ron and Lavender had just walked in together, fashionably late. He saw her start to turn around, so he quickly said, “Don’t look. They don’t matter.”

“Easy for you to say,” she said sadly, but she didn’t look.

“He’s a two-timing bastard, and she’s a two-Knut hussy,” he dismissed them with a flick of his finger. “Have some of this chocolate torte.” He cut off a generous slice and placed it on her plate.

She blinked at his abrupt change of subject, and then as if steeling herself, she picked up her fork and started to take large bites. Draco’s hand on her wrist stopped her.

“Darling,” he drawled, not looking at her, as he slowly used his fork to take a piece of her torte, “dessert is never a chore, and always savored unhurried.” So saying, he placed the bite in his mouth.

Realizing the advice he was giving her, she resolved to enjoy her dessert, pushing the subject of Ron and Lavender far from her mind, concentrating instead on the creamy richness of the chocolate dessert in front of her. Whether it was the chocolate, or the company, by the time it was finished she felt fortified, stronger, and ready for her next personal battle.

It came sooner than expected, as the dancing began, and people started to move around the room, shooting glances at her when they thought she wasn’t looking. After the first few songs, during which both Draco and Hermione remained seated, each sipping on a glass of champagne, the Minister walked up to the stage, along with a few other heads of departments, including Harry Potter.

From the stage, Harry Potter looked directly at them, surprise evident on his face, as he saw Hermione sitting there. He quickly looked away, probably guessing, correctly, that he would draw attention to her if he were staring, although his eyes did flick to her once more before he settled to listen to Shacklebolt.

“I told him I wasn’t coming tonight,” Hermione whispered out of the side of her mouth, by way of explanation, looking a little concerned about the reserved expression on Harry’s face.

As the Minister spoke, there were several accolades handed out for various accomplishments within the Ministry. When Potter stepped up to speak, Draco felt his heart sink in his chest. He very much hoped that what he feared was about to happen was not truly going to happen.

When Potter began to wax poetic about bravery defining the Aurors, Draco knew without a doubt, and he looked quickly over at Hermione who didn’t seem to have a clue, as she was smiling proudly at Harry as she always did.

But then Potter began to describe the battle in which Draco had rescued Weasley, and he saw her face go white. All eyes turned to them, and Ron, who had jumped up to cheer Draco’s rescue paused comically as he saw who was sitting next to him, an indescribable look on his face giving way to anger and contempt, quickly hidden behind a mask of politeness as he resumed his clapping, not looking at Draco, and sitting down.

Potter and the Minister gave him public thanks for his service, while Draco tried not to sneer that Weasley’s life wasn’t worth saving, and Hermione was practicing gracious and polite applause, carefully avoiding the eyes of everyone. Her face had regained some color from its initial blanching, but she was clearly a bit unhinged at finding herself so awkwardly, and indirectly, spotlighted.

After, when the Minister encouraged everyone to continue to dance, and the band struck up a lively tune, Draco grabbed her hand and said, “We’re dancing, Granger.” She balked, unwilling to bring herself further into the public eye.

He tugged on her hand a little more forcefully, and in a low voice, he said, “I’m a celebrity tonight. I need to dance. You’re a celebrity every day. You need to dance. Show off the dress. And if the Weasel tries bothering you, Merlin help me, I will hex him again.”

He saw her chin go up, belatedly remembering he was supposed to remind her of her right to be angry, although his words did seem to do the trick. She grasped his hand more firmly, and allowed him to lead her out onto the dance floor.

When he took her in his arms, he realized he’d forgotten that her back was bare, and the feel of her skin beneath his fingers sent electric shocks up his arms. Her skin was soft and warm, her flesh firm but yielding under his palm. He was blinded momentarily by a bolt of lust, entirely inappropriate to the evening and which he quickly suppressed, launching them into an easy waltz.

As a Malfoy, Draco knew all of the wizarding dances, and effortlessly transitioned to the next dance, gratified to see her face reflecting momentary enjoyment. When she glanced up at him, her innocent remark, “You’re fun to dance with,” sent shivers up and down his arms as he helplessly envisioned much slower, much closer dancing.

He was almost relieved when Potter cut in, and Draco, surreptitiously rubbing his stomach as if that could soothe the knots that were tightening there, handed Hermione over to her best friend.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was supposed to be every week, but I got delayed. I'm going to post each chapter as it's ready, until I'm caught up with where I'm supposed to be.
> 
> S&R Movement: CONSTRUCTIVE REVIEWS WELCOME (CRW)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco and Hermione continue to have dinner (but mostly alcohol)

Draco was back at his table, sipping on another glass of champagne and wishing it was Firewhisky, when he heard Hermione and Potter coming back. With his back to them they probably didn’t realize he could hear them faintly above the sound of the music.

“I just want you to be sure,” Potter was saying. “I’ll support your decisions, either way. I just don’t want you showing up here with  _him_  because you know it would make Ron madder than a hatter.”

The remark caused Draco to sourly down the rest of his champagne. He had thought he and Potter had an understanding, him being one of the few people that Draco actually respected (begrudgingly). It hurt more than he expected to hear himself described that way, and he wondered if that was truly why Hermione had agreed to go with him that evening. Her next words surprised him.

“Harry Potter, I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just say that,” her voice was sharp, hissing. “Yes, there are aspects of this evening that are just to make Ron mad. But Malfoy is not one of them. Malfoy is here for me.”

“What do you mean Malfoy is here for you?” Potter sounded confused, and Draco bitterly thought it was because he didn’t believe that a Malfoy was ever there for anyone but himself.

“Malfoy is on my side.” She said it with conviction, and Draco was absurdly pleased with himself to hear her defense of him.

“Malfoy,” Potter corrected, “is always on whatever side is against Ron.”

Well, that was probably true, Draco had to admit to himself. Although, irrelevant in this case.

“Well, so am I,” huffed Hermione. Then she backtracked, “And that’s not what you were saying ten minutes ago when you were praising Draco’s actions in saving Ron.” The sound of his given name from her lips gave him an odd thrill as he realized she’d never called him that to his face. And that he really, really wanted her to.

Potter sighed, “Malfoy is a good guy, Hermione. I even like him sometimes. That’s not my problem.”  He paused. “I’m just worried about you.”

Draco decided it was time to make his presence known. He stood up and turned around, the empty glass of champagne held casually in his fingertips. “No need, Potter.” He glanced at Hermione who was clearly concerned about what he had overheard, and then he turned back to Potter. “Hermione,” and he savored calling her by her name out loud for the first time, “can certainly take care of herself.”

The great Harry Potter scowled like a child. “I know that, Malfoy.”

Looking him straight in the eye, closing the short distance between them, Draco asked, “Do you? Really?”

He didn’t break the stare and Potter searched his gaze intently, looking for something. Just in time, Draco remembered to shut down his mind to Potter’s Legilimency, knowing that even Harry Potter’s scruples would not hold when his friends were in danger.

What Harry glimpsed in those icy depths before the locks shut down must have surprised him greatly. He grabbed a Firewhisky from a passing server, downed it in one gulp, and said, “Well, shit, Malfoy.” And then he walked off.

Funny, that’s exactly what Draco was thinking, his mind reeling, wondering what Harry had seen and hoping it wasn’t what he suspected. But lately, nothing had been going his way, so it was probably the worst, although he wasn’t sure what the worst could be.

Hermione looked at him, confused, and he turned his attention back to her.

“I don’t suppose you’d like a Firewhiskey, too?” he asked. He actually meant that he needed one.

But she shook her head, eager to get back to the conversation at hand. “What just happened?” she asked.

Since Draco didn’t actually know, he just shrugged. But something he had just heard didn’t sit right with him. He knew she was trying to make Ron mad, and that was the whole point (a point of which he wholeheartedly approved), but he didn’t like the thought that she was purposely trying to throw Slytherin house in Ron’s face, as if Slytherins were somehow inferior or evil. He'd dealt with enough of that bigotry so it should have been unsurprising, but he had sort of been hoping that Hermione didn’t view him that way.

With Harry gone they were alone at their table again, and Draco didn’t waste any time. “Why did you wear the dress?” he asked, unsuccessful at keeping suspicion from lacing his tone.

She was busy flagging a server down and so she didn’t see the look on his face. But she turned around, concerned, “I thought you said I got the right dress.” She looked so put out it was almost comical.

For some reason Draco needed to find out the answer to this one question, so he pushed her. “But why did you get that color?”

Thinking about it, Hermione said, slowly, as if speaking to a child, “Because that’s the color it came in.” A server responding to Hermione’s summons set a glass of Firewhisky down in front of her. She thanked him and then promptly moved it in front of Draco.

He was taken aback at the gesture, temporarily sidetracked from his interrogation and looked questioningly at her.

She shrugged. “What? You wanted one, right?”

He had. He’d decided he wasn’t going to start shooting Firewhisky if she wasn’t going to be having any (out of some misguided attempt at politeness, he supposed). But clearly, since she was offering, he wasn’t going to pass it up. He took a sip, enjoying the fire burning down his throat. But that didn’t stop him from continuing. “But why not your house colors?” he prodded. “You’ve always shone in reds and golds.”

“I just liked the dress,” she stated honestly. “It was beautiful.” Her brows furrowed as she tried to understand why he was quizzing her about her dress color.

He should have let it go at that, but he needed to be sure, so he pointed out, “You could have transfigured it to a different color very easily.”

“I guess so,” she acknowledged, uncomfortably. “I figured no one else would be wearing it. I’ve always wanted to, it just never seemed appropriate. I just...I wanted to feel bold. And powerful. And eye-catching.”

He looked at her, then, understanding what she meant. “You are,” he reassured her quietly. “Bold, powerful, eye-catching. And it’s not the dress.” She looked a little confused at that, and afraid he was saying too much, he added, “But the dress is perfect just the same.”

She sat at the table, looking at her glass of champagne, lost in thought, her lips pursed. Then she turned to him and said, “You don’t own a color, you know.”

Nearly done with the Firewhisky, Draco’s eyebrows rose into his hairline. “Pardon?”

She huffed at him. “You don’t own the color green. You were thinking I didn’t have the right to wear green because I’m not a Slytherin. Well, your house doesn’t own the color green.”

He gaped at her, the glass still halfway to his mouth. “I was not thinking that.”

But she didn’t hear him, because she was still talking, a little bit peeved, “And if I decide to wear black one day, you can’t arrest me for impersonating a Malfoy, either.” She snorted at that. “Colors are colors. I will wear green if I damn well want to wear green. And if I wear it better than any Slytherin ever did, that’s really not my fault. What?”

He was grinning at her, amused by her tirade, feeling light-hearted. “Actually, no one wears green better than me.” He nudged the glass with the last of the Firewhisky over to her, almost like a peace offering.

She snatched it up and downed it, and then remarked in her regular tones, “No one would ever know, since I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in green outside of school.” She smirked up at him. “I assumed you would be wearing black tonight, and so I would be the only one in green. And really, that was only an afterthought as I’d already bought the dress.”

“Slytherin House would have been honored to have you, Hermione Granger,” Draco said, meaning it, almost wishing that was how it had happened. He could have snatched her up before any Weasley ever laid eyes on her. There was no doubt in his mind that had she been in Slytherin house, Muggle-born or not, she would have been his long before now.

“Damn straight!” she said, and he grinned at her, knowing she was responding to his words, not his unspoken thoughts, but agreeing with the sentiment all the same.

“I thought for a minute, actually, that the dress was green just to get under Ron’s skin by associating you with Slytherin.” He raised his hands in surrender, laughing, as he saw her eyes narrow. “I know. Now, I mean. I know now. We don’t own colors.” As an afterthought he added, “Except for Malfoy Black, of course.”

Intrigued, her eyes widened and she asked in hushed tones, “Do you really have your own shade of black, Malfoy?”

Before he could respond to her gullibility, they were interrupted by grating tones. “Why Hermione, I’m glad to see you’re trying to come back out into society.”

They both looked up to see a heavily made-up Lavender Brown, a sneer on her face, her words anything but sincere. In the silence that followed this proclamation, Lavender looked Hermione up and down, and then she conspicuously shifted her ample bosom, declaring, “I can see why Ron always found you so…lacking.” Her eyes pointedly aimed at her chest. “Good on you for trying, though. It’s too bad you have to reduce yourself to dressing like a...well, a tramp,” she batted her eyes with false apology, “but I’m sure you’ll eventually find someone happy to take what little you can offer.”

With that shockingly bad-mannered statement, she flounced off with a little, “Ta-ta!”

Draco snorted in disgust, irritated that there was no good reason for him to whip out his wand and hex her. He leaned towards Hermione to make a disdainful comment about Lavender’s effrontery but stopped abruptly when he realized the bright, vivacious woman of moments ago had all but wilted under the senseless verbal assault.

Suddenly angered, he turned her to face him, giving her a little shake. “You did not just buy that…that…swill from that swine,” he bit out. When she turned her face to look up at him, he saw the bright sheen that spoke of unshed tears, and cursed under his breath. His fingers trembled with the urge to wipe them from her eyes, but he just gripped her shoulders a little harder, shaking her unresisting form.

“Listen to me,” he ground out. “You’re Hermione Granger. In all her life, with the Darkest magic behind her, she could never aspire to come close to you. She will always be lacking. And Ron deserves her because he’s an idiot who deserves nothing but strife and drama for the rest of his hopefully pitifully short life.” He punctuated the last words with little shakes, her curly hair bobbing.

She sniffed for a moment, audibly gulping, and blinking back the telltale tears. “You’re angry,” she whispered.

“Damn straight!” he quoted her, releasing her shoulders because he desperately wanted to do the exact opposite. He regarded his empty Firewhisky glass, his desire for another one obvious enough that a server immediately brought him one.

Draco scowled at his retreating back. “Where was he two minutes ago?”

Hermione’s voice was creaky, but she gamely tried to carry on a conversation. “What could he possibly have done two minutes ago?”

Draco snorted. “Well, I would have had Firewhisky. I could have tossed it into her eyes to see if it burned, for one.”

Hermione’s hands quickly covered her mouth and Draco looked at her, worried that she was about to cry. But then a soft giggle escaped her hands. “You’re so mean.”

Relieved that she wasn’t reduced to tears, he smirked and said, “It might have been doing her a favor. Merlin knows having the make-up burned off her could only improve her looks.”

She giggled again, another quiet one, but it quickly escalated into a louder one. Draco couldn’t help but laugh with her. She started to stammer around her giggles, almost unable to catch her breath, “Can you im—imagine?” Giggle. “Drenched in Firewhiskey.” Giggle, giggle. “Peeved like Cr—Crookshanks caught in a thunderstorm.” Her voice raised on the last word. She must have found this image hilarious, because he started to see the tears leaking from her eyes. She took a napkin from the table, dabbing at her eyes.

She finally calmed enough to reach for a sip of water. But when the glass was at her mouth, she caught his amused look, and burst out laughing again, spitting water everywhere on the table.

Draco caught the disapproving glare being shot at them from across the room by Ron Weasley, but thankfully Hermione was too caught up in her laughter and apologizing to the servers who were picking up the wet dishes and dabbing at the tablecloth. She didn’t need any more negativity, so he purposely distracted her from glancing in Weasley's direction.

When the servers had left, replacing her glass of water with a new one, and Hermione was carefully sipping at it, he drily stated with finality, “Well, I’m not taking you out in public ever again.”

Her chocolate eyes danced with laughter and she teased, “Malfoy Rule #29: Thou shalt not dribble your beverage at the dinner table.”

He glared at her playfully, his voice thick with aristocratic tones. “Malfoys do not need rules to tell them what is obvious to even the most uncivilized peasant.” A pause. “Which is that thou shalt not dribble your beverage  _anywhere_."

She stared at him before bursting into more peals of laughter, sending warm trickles up and down his spine. Her hand clasped his arm, her touch burning through his sleeve.

Merlin, she was beautiful when she laughed. Weasley was such a fool.

As much as he hated to bring the evening to an end, he said, “We should go now. End on a high note, so the last thing people see is you laughing your head off.” He stood up and offered her his arm.

Seeing the wisdom in this, she accepted and they walked out, her talking animatedly, and him trying unsuccessfully to maintain his normal stern expression. Neither noticed the glowers sent their way by one Weasel and the concerned glances exchanged by two Potters.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R Movement: CONSTRUCTIVE REVIEWS WELCOME (CRW)


	6. Chapter 6

  

Draco thought of Hermione incessantly for the next several days. It was traditional to send a date a bouquet of flowers or some other token of appreciation for their company on the morning after. But since the tradition was an old one, he wasn't sure which would be more irritating to a Muggle-born: to receive a gift (as if it were payment?) or to be ignored (as if considered inconsequential?). After debating the question for hours, and having no one to consult with, he finally decided that he was wasting his time trying to figure out which was the right move. He went to sleep determined to go to work the next day as if nothing had happened.

That night, and every night after, he was plagued with shimmery memories of their night together. His brain seemed obsessed with replaying those moments when she danced in his arms. When he slumbered, he could feel again the satiny smoothness of her skin and the sensual texture of the lace at her back. In his dreams she looked up at him and she laughed, and he held her close, and they spun and spun and the world was just lights around them.

Sometimes he even leaned down to put his mouth on hers, and she wrapped her arms around him and he breathed in her scent. She was warm and soft, shy and eager, and he couldn't get enough of the feel of her, the magnificent emerald dress bunching in his hands as he clutched at her, until somehow it was gone and his hands were free to roam over her willing flesh. And it was just the two of them, spinning and spinning, and he didn't dare stop to breathe. Except he always needed oxygen, and when he finally gasped for air, he would wake up with his heart pounding, his arms empty and aching, and he would curse himself for being a lovesick fool.

He was gearing up for a raid, running a check on his equipment, when she burst into his office in a flurry. In her hands was a copy of _Witch Weekly_ , and the excitement on her face caused him to pause in his actions to take in the pleasing color of her cheeks and the light in her eyes.

"We did it!" she said without any preamble. And when Draco raised one eyebrow in a questioning glance, she slammed the copy of the magazine down on his desk.

He didn't tell her that he'd already received his copy that morning. As he always did he had devoured it for any news of her, so he knew she was on the cover and that there were several pages detailing their night at the Ministry dinner inside.

"I look fabulous!" she crowed, pointing out the moving picture of her laughing on the cover, the emerald dress sparkling, her eyes sassy and sultry at the same time—the very picture of confidence and poise. Underneath the caption read: ‘War-Heroine Hermione Granger Outshines the Brightest Stars of the Night.’ Smaller pictures on the side showed Harry and Ginny, the Minister, the Weasel, and even one of him, none of which could compare to the glowing image of Granger.

"You do," Draco acknowledged, forbearing to mention that he included the current moment in his assessment, as well as the picture on the cover. "But I thought we'd already agreed on that."

"I know," she said passionately, "but this is the first time that they talk about me as if I am a person and not just an extension of Ron Weasley, or even Harry Potter, and certainly not a tragic victim of infidelity. You were right: I just needed to out-confidence them."

He put a bored look on and shook out his gloves as he pulled them on and laced them up. "Of course I was right. That's what I do."

She laughed at him, and he tried to keep the pleased look off of his face that she could find his arrogance entertaining instead of offensive.

"I'm too happy to argue the point at the moment," Hermione said with good humor, making herself at home in the chair in front of his desk. She flipped the magazine back around so she could look at it, pointing out one of Draco's favorite pictures of the two of them laughing at the dinner table. "Look, here's one of the two of us!"

To amuse her, he looked, pretending to regard it carefully. In reality he was noticing the picture in the corner that showed a pouty Lavender Brown trying to wheedle something from Weasley. The image in the box stamped her foot repeatedly, her face ugly with frustration. He'd already seen the picture, of course, but his copy didn't include magically drawn horns and buck teeth.

She noticed him smirking at it and she grinned mischievously. "I never said I was an artist."

"On the contrary, Granger—you have a very perceptive eye." He made a show of looking at it more closely and added, "Your sense of proportion seems to be rooted in a different reality, as I'm sure those teeth are roughly the size of her arm, but there's a certain charm to it all the same."

"You don't think I'm being childish?" she asked hesitantly. "To feel triumph at something as shallow as a flattering shot in a tawdry magazine?"

Draco noticed she didn't mention the defacing of Lavender Brown's, well, face, because that was _obviously_ a bit childish. She was still seeking reassurance that her feelings were valid.

After a moment of looking at the magazine, he looked up at her and said, "Granger, the first time I appeared in a magazine and wasn't called a Death Eater, a traitor, a pureblood fascist or anything on the theme, I celebrated being just Draco Malfoy. It's not childish to hope the public can see you for who you are, and not just what you've endured."

She sobered very quickly at that, no doubt wracking her mind for any times she might have contributed to Wizarding Society's shunning of Draco Malfoy. Though the war was well behind them, the scars left behind would never completely fade. She hadn't given much thought to how difficult it must have been for Draco to be accepted by society without having to make constant reparations for his misdeeds as a boy.

"We should celebrate, then," Hermione finally said, causing Draco to look up at her sharply. She explained, "I'm Hermione Granger, a girl who likes books and a good cup of tea, and has ambition to accomplish something great in the Ministry. And you're Draco Malfoy, an extraordinarily talented Auror who wears a lot of black and enjoys playing Quidditch. And it doesn't matter what the tabloids or ignorant, blind, self-righteous idiots say, they don't define us. Only we can define us."

Touched, and a little bit thrilled to hear her use the word ‘us,’ he just nodded, once. "I have to report for duty and it looks to be a long day."

"Oh, okay," Hermione said, trying to hide her disappointment, slowly getting up. She picked up her magazine and made as if to leave.

"Tomorrow, maybe," Draco called out to her. "During lunch. You can bring a piece of cake or something."

She smiled at that, and as she walked out she said, "Be safe." No doubt she had said the phrase countless times to others, but it was the first time Draco had ever had anyone show such casual concern over his welfare, and he took a moment to savor it before hastily picking up his things and walking quickly down the hall to where he was already late for the briefing.

The next day, due to a flurry of teenagers illegally using magic outside of school and getting themselves into considerable trouble, Draco missed lunch back at his desk. He tried to convince himself that it wasn't like they'd set up a date or something. It would seem awfully formal if he sent her an owl telling her he was going to be late. She might not even have taken him seriously, and probably wasn't planning on coming by at all. He wasn't sure which was worse at the moment: that she would stop by his desk and not find him there, with no word, or that she wasn't thinking about him at all and had already dismissed their conversation from her mind.

Okay, clearly the latter was worse.

When he made it back, a bit grimy from the field, he stopped short to find a single slice of cake sitting on his desk. It had a magical protection bubble around it, presumably keeping it fresh, but also making it look a little bit like a special snowglobe of cake. He slowly lowered his gear in a corner, to be unpacked later, and with a casual glance over his shoulder, he closed his office door.

He was feeling sort of pleased and tingly and didn't want anyone coming in to ask him questions. He sat at his desk, noting the skill of the magic weaved around the cake, and with a few words and a flick of his wand, he disbursed it.

The cake was black. It smelled rather sinfully of chocolate, making it clear what flavor it was, but it was unusual for a cake to be so dark. The frosting was also black and on the top was a profusion of black sprinkles. In fact, there were so many sprinkles on the cake that they were scattered all over the plate as well.

He noticed a slip of paper sticking out from underneath the plate, and drew it out to see a note from Granger.

_"Mine was gold. Because I'm not a depressive soul who resents all the colors of the rainbow in retaliation for being born with albino hair and as a consequence invents my own shade of black."_

He laughed aloud at that, his fingers resting on the light lines of her signature at the bottom. It said, simply, "HG."

Idly flipping the note over, he saw a P.S.

_"I thought the sprinkles made it look more festive."_

He ate it while logging his day's activities, a silly grin plastered on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R Movement: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	7. Chapter 7

It was late in the evening and Hermione was settling onto the couch in her new flat. It had been exceptionally painful to walk away from the cozy little home she'd set up with Ron, but she had quickly determined that she was not going to take anything away from there unless she absolutely needed it. Ron could have it all.

That meant that she'd taken all of her books (and Crookshanks, of course), but little else. She had more than enough funds to replace anything that needed replacing, and after the first day or two of sitting depressively in the middle of an empty room, she took Ginny on a whirlwind shopping tour. (Ginny had brought Jamie along so there had been plenty of stops to show off the adorably chubby baby, and Hermione found herself purchasing almost as many baby items as household items.)

Though her flat wasn't quite finished yet, she was becoming more and more satisfied that it truly reflected her taste and her new direction in life.

Ron had been a bit embarrassed by her love of books, so she'd tried to keep her bookshelves out of the way. But here she placed them prominently on display on some truly magnificent mahogany shelves that stretched from floor to vaulted ceiling. She even had one of those fun little ladders that you could push along the rails to reach the books on the uppermost shelf. Obviously, magic made it much easier to bring the books down, but sometimes you just wanted to climb up and browse, tracing your fingers along the spines until you found one you wanted.

The pictures on the wall were a combination of Muggle and wizard photographs (not a Quidditch poster to be seen). She felt the beauty of the unmoving Muggle shots was that they encapsulated a single moment in time and made it profound. Her favorite was of a sunrise, the first rays hitting the top of a mountain. Sometimes she felt like she'd been in darkness for so long that the rays of the sun were just beginning to hit her.

Her relationship with Ron had always been difficult. Their years at Hogwarts, obviously filled with adventure and danger, were also defined by their budding romance. Ron was a bit reluctant to acknowledge it at first, but when they finally came together, she had been sure that it would be happily ever after. As children she knew Ron was not very mature, but even as they grew into adults, Ron, to her dismay, often seemed the same boy she knew at 16.

He frequently chided her for being boring and drab. He never wanted to have long conversations, preferring to be out playing Quidditch, or even sitting in front of the telly that she had magicked to work in their home. (He was somehow fascinated by all the moving people, despite the fact that magical paintings were much the same. Better, even.)

It was some time after they had moved in together that she began to wonder if he truly loved her or if she was just a convenient habit for him. Was she just the grown-up version of having a mother to make dinner and do the laundry (tasks which she could never do as good as his mum, but for which he regularly forgave her)?

When they would fight it was always she who had been expecting too much, or pushing too hard. And so it was always she who had to make the apologies and right the wrongs. Ron would come around afterwards, sometimes even offering her a token apology. Then he would take her out to dinner, or buy her jewelry, as if those things could somehow repair a relationship that was slowly decaying.

She didn't like to go out that often, so when she started insisting that she'd much rather stay at home, Ron began to go out by himself. Sometimes he'd be out with Harry and the rest of the guys, but sometimes he'd just leave in a huff, annoyed that Hermione didn't want to go off to a party somewhere.

She suspected it was then that he started to see other girls. There was never any evidence that she could see. And when the uneasy feeling came over her that maybe she didn't have Ron's full attention anymore, she ignored it, unwilling to believe such a vile thing about him without some kind of valid reason.

One night he stayed out all night and she wondered if he would even come home. She thought about owling Harry to see if he had crashed on his couch, but wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

In the early morning light, she was sitting at the window in her nightgown when she had heard him stumble in through the Floo. He saw her there, waiting for him, and looked at her with that sheepish smile that never failed to melt her heart.

"Sorry, love, were you worried?" he'd asked. And she hadn't answered, unsure about the feelings swirling around in her chest. He'd taken her silence as an affirmative and slowly made his way over to sit by her.

"I got you something, yeah?" She knew it was more jewelry, but didn't say anything.

Only this time, it wasn't just jewelry; Ron pulled out a box and opened it to reveal an engagement ring. "It's about time, don't you think? A girl shouldn't be waiting up without at least a ring to keep her warm."

And that was how she became engaged to Ron Weasley. She had been happy, elated even, to finally have the evidence of his commitment to her. They were going to share their lives together, and things were going to get better, she hoped.

She recognized now how foolish it was to build more layers on top of a faulty foundation. But at the time, she had been desperately trying to hold together all the pieces of her dreams.

It had all come crumbling down on her that night at the Ministry, seeing Lavender held so familiarly in Ron's arms. She never did find out how long that had been going on. It didn't really matter.

She felt like a failure. She wasn't interesting enough or pretty enough or adventurous enough or spontaneous enough to keep the attention of Ron Weasley. She had failed her marriage before it had even started. She had failed Ginny and Harry who were counting on her to keep Ron in line. But mostly, and she was just now truly beginning to understand this, she had failed herself. She had lied to herself, she had willingly deceived herself, and she even blamed herself.

She didn't recognize herself anymore.

Decorating her new flat had given her the chance to get to know herself again. If she wanted something she purchased it, and didn't wonder if Ron was going to accept it in the home. She moved furniture around, sometimes magically, sometimes the Muggle way, until she found a set up that she liked best and that suited her needs. It meant that instead of facing a telly or a table with a set of Wizard's Chess, her chaise lounge sofa faced the enormous bay window that let in late afternoon sunlight.

Like now, she was sitting in it, facing the beautiful colors of the setting sun, letting herself just sit and breathe, trying to feel independent and strong and not just lonely and broken. A book lay unopened in her lap. She'd meant to start reading it but had gotten distracted by her thoughts.

She had been quite pleased with herself the last few days. After the Ministry dinner she had redoubled her efforts to move on past the farce that was her relationship with Ron Weasley. She would not be treated as a victim. She would not bemoan her situation. She had gotten herself into the mess, and she was going to celebrate the fact that (however it had happened) she had gotten out of it.

Just as she was wondering about what Malfoy had thought of the slice of cake she'd left him—and she was smiling at the thought of her note—she saw an owl flying up to tap on her window. It was a beautiful snowy white owl with black markings on its legs and face, and so she was unsurprised to discover that such a magnificent specimen of owlhood belonged to Malfoy, based on the scroll that she detached from its leg.

She handed it a little owl treat in thanks, which it regally accepted, making her feel as if she should thank it for the privilege of feeding it. She chuckled a little, charmed by its stiff politeness.

After it flew away, she closed the window, and sat back down in her chaise. By the size of the scroll it seemed to be quite a lengthy letter, and she was immensely curious to see what Malfoy could possibly need to say to her.

She unrolled it, perplexed to see that there was nothing on it. When the scroll was finally all the way open she saw a single line written on the top.

_"Thank you for the cake."_

Confused as to why he would need that much scroll to say something so simple, it was still open when another line magically appeared underneath it.

_"And my incredible, unmatched, magnificent hair is platinum."_

She laughed aloud, wondering if the whole scroll was charmed with words that would appear in time.

After a few moments, another line appeared.

_"And the sprinkles were really quite festive."_

She smiled, a warm feeling rising in her that he had enjoyed the silly slice of cake she'd left him. When she'd first begun speaking to him, she'd had to remind herself repeatedly that in a post-Voldemort world they were all supposed to be equals. While she had first steeled herself to receive some unpleasant insults, she was almost shocked to realize that Draco Malfoy could carry on a civilized conversation.

She knew he was unpopular among the Aurors (and with reason), and she often wondered why he even bothered to pursue a profession that put him in contact with so many people who didn't like him. Still, over time she grew to enjoy the brief conversations they had. He was intelligent, witty, and though he had a penchant for snarky comments, she rather thought he would have made a good addition to their little group of friends.

Not for the first time she wondered if things would have been different if Harry had accepted Draco's friendship that very first year. Different for them, certainly, and probably very, very different for Draco.

She was still holding the scroll open, waiting to see when the next line would appear when the words _"Are you there?"_ were scrawled across in the same graceful calligraphy.

In her surprise, she dropped the scroll to the ground, feeling absurdly like she'd been caught by a teacher with the Marauder's Map. It rolled around on the wood floors, coming to a stop against the leg of her dining table, where she stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment.

Then she bolted off the chaise, snatched it up, and sitting at the table, she read the words again. Merlin, he must be there on the other end right at that same moment. She laughed to herself. Why, he was doing the Wizarding equivalent of texting her!

The thought occurred to her that she needed a quill, just as she realized he'd been waiting for her to answer for a few moments now.

She quickly called a beautiful, feathered, Self-Inking Quill to her with a wandless  _Accio_ , but then sat there, the tip poised above the parchment, wondering what she ought to say.

Deciding not to second-guess herself (this wasn't an essay after all), she wrote out, "I think so. Are you?"

Sure enough, the answer arrived immediately.

_"What a ridiculous answer. If you don't know if you're there or not, I certainly can't help you. But I know for a fact that I am here."_

She smiled, that warm feeling still fluttering in her stomach.

"Did you eat all the cake?"

_"Every last bite, despite its rather sinister appearance. Good thing you left the note, or I would have assumed someone was out to poison me."_

"I rather thought the black would make you feel all cozy and fuzzy inside."

_"You are under a misapprehension that black is my favorite color."_

"You wear it all the time."

_"Because it makes me look good, Granger. I'd look terrible in my favorite color."_

"Oh, what is it?"

_"Brown."_

"Brown?! Like wood? Like dead leaves? Like dirt? Like teddy bears?"

_"I am scowling right now. No."_

"Then like what?"

There was a pause, and Hermione wondered if he was going to answer. Then the words slowly appeared.

_"Like chocolate: rich and dark and creamy. Like the scent of freshly baked bread: sweet and warm and enticing. Like cinnamon: sometimes spicy hot, sometimes sickly sweet, always tantalizing."_

She didn't know what it meant, the hot streaks at the back of her neck. But there was something about his words, almost poetic, that made her feel awkward and shy. She didn't know to respond to it. So she simply wrote, "My favorite color is green."

She could almost see him smirking when he responded with, _"Like trees? Like leaves? Like grass? Like apples?"_

And she said, "No, like life."

There was no response for quite a while. She was debating whether or not she should add something to her words when he wrote, _"When I think of green, I usually think of death."_

And she remembered that the Avada Kadavra spell was green. She didn't know how she could have forgotten, when sometimes those green lights woke her up from nightmares. But she never thought of that as her green. She suddenly felt terrible for inadvertently sending the conversation into morbid territory.

"It's better to think of life," she told him.

_"I think that I will, then,"_ was his answer.

She didn't know what else to say after that, so she stated the obvious. "The parchment is almost filled."

_"I guess this is goodnight, then, Granger."_

"Goodnight, Malfoy."

She didn't know why she kept staring at the parchment for long moments afterwards. She knew he wasn't going to be writing anymore. There wasn't any more room, and they'd already said goodnight. But she continued looking at it, rereading their words, long after the sun had finished setting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R Movement: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)


	8. Chapter 8

 

Whenever a full department meeting of Aurors was called, it was never a good thing. One might think that sometimes they would call a meeting to announce a bonus, a surprise day off or even a celebratory potluck, but if one thought that, one would find oneself regularly disappointed and even offended by the sheer volume of bad news delivered during a full department meeting.

It was this very thought that was reflected in Draco's sneer as he marched himself down the corridor to the open expanse of the main Auror Office where most of the Aurors were already gathered together for whatever bomb the Ministry was about to drop on them. Perhaps there was a serial killer on the loose who, by the way, was also invisible, had the ability to travel through time and whose capture would be rewarded with free potions to restore the limbs you lost in the process of apprehending him. Or perhaps, due to budget cuts, they were going to be limited to one set of shielded armor per Auror partnership, and each partner would have to decide which half they would wear. Perhaps they were reviving the old uniforms, which included robes with extremely high, starched lace collars.

As Draco picked a column towards the back upon which he could indolently lean against, his training had him automatically observing and cataloguing his surroundings. He quickly spotted the red head of slovenly-arranged hair belonging to one Ronald Weasley, and felt his gaze turn cold. Of course, the thin mark that had crossed his cheek from Draco's hex was long gone, but Draco rather thought it would be many moons before the anger with which the hex had been cast could be considered spent.

It did not escape his notice that Weasley was not wearing his Auror uniform. Though they were not always required to don battle armor, they wore their uniforms on duty, without fail, special assignments notwithstanding. There were many dedicated Aurors who wore their uniforms at all times, knowing they could easily be called out to the field on a moment's notice. Even when not in uniform, most Aurors tended to wear inconspicuous clothing, simple styles and dark colors and, occasionally, their Hogwarts House colors.

Of course, Draco always wore black. His lips twitched at the memory of the conversation with Hermione by scroll where he revealed that black was not his favorite color. He knew she was teasing, but he enjoyed surprising her.

It was a common misconception that he wore black because he liked it. (Or, according to some theories, because his soul was equally as black.) In truth, it was a lesson he learned from his father; black was intimidating. It was powerful. (Not to mention always slimming and flattering on every body type.) Black could imply secrets and luxury, and as a trademark, it could strike fear in the hearts of the opposition. For a Malfoy, ‘opposition’ could be anyone who did not have the same goals that you did—which meant everyone, at one time or another. Color was a tool, just like Hermione had learned with her breathtaking green dress.

The clothing choices you make, outside of just the color, are also a tool, to gain the influence or the response from others that you are looking for. And today, Ron Weasley's choice of garment proved that he was, in fact, a _tool_ ; Ron was wearing a Chudley Cannons jersey, the orange of the team colors contrasting with his hair and the very freckles on his face, which made him look offensively ochreous. Draco's sneer became even more derisive, if such a thing were possible.

The famous self-satisfied grin plastered on Ron’s face ensured that whatever news could be making him so happy would surely be disagreeable to Draco. Ron had not yet returned to duty from his sabbatical after his close call with death (a call that could not have been closer than Draco's himself, and yet he clearly needed no sabbatical, probably because he wasn't born a prat of a Weasley, something he couldn't very well hold against Ron, and yet he did, anyway). Draco also suspected that Potter had encouraged the Weasel to stay out of the limelight after the very public dissolution of his engagement to Hermione Granger. And it was possible that he had not been cleared as mentally fit for duty. Frankly, Draco suspected that Weasley never qualified on that count to begin with, and was only passed through because he and Potter were a proven effective duo.

Speaking of Potter, he clearly had his 'official' look on his face, so he would definitely be making an announcement. But as his mien seemed lighter than it had since the debacle at the Ministry Ball, Draco was intrigued by the possibility that there might be a silver lining to this cloud.

"Thank you all for coming," Potter began, as if they weren't all summoned and mandated to be there. "Over the years we have lost many good Aurors, frequently under very sad circumstances. So it pleases me greatly to announce the retirement of my good friend and partner, Ron Weasley, under some of the best circumstances."

Unsure if Ron wanted to make the announcement himself, Potter looked at him for a cue. The Weasel, his Weasel-grin stretching from ear to ridiculous ear, jumped to his feet, pointing at his jersey, and yelled out triumphantly, "I'm going to play for the Cannons, mates! As their new Keeper!"

There was half-hearted cheering and sprinkled applause, followed by considerable laughter. It was no secret that the Cannons were one of the worst teams in the League. It was also no secret that Ron Weasley was fiercely loyal to them. Playing for the Cannons would be a dream come true for the Weasel. Draco would almost begrudge him his happiness, except that would mean conceding there was anything worthwhile in being a Cannon, and that was an admission Draco was not willing to make.

It did look like a bit of good news, though. At least he wouldn't have to see his Weasel-face every day, and he wouldn't have to risk his life again to save his Weasel-neck.

Even more importantly, the thought niggled in the back of his brain, Hermione wouldn't have to see him every day, either. She was well rid of Weasley, of course, but he felt better knowing there was very little chance she'd run into his freckly face when she was least expecting it, and that he wouldn't be able to hamstring her life any more than he already had.

In fact, the thought that Hermione would have a virtually Ron-free life made him very nearly smile before he remembered himself.

Potter was expressing the department's regrets at losing such a dedicated (exaggeration) and experienced (exaggeration) and exceptional (immense exaggeration) Auror, and that he himself would be sad to lose his best friend as his partner.

As those words came out of his mouth, Draco noticed that Potter glanced over at him, clearly aware of his feelings as he lounged in the back of the crowd. Potter was trying not to acknowledge the fact that Weasley's presence would not be universally missed. Not everyone realized there was a rift between Weasley and Potter as a result of Ron's breakup with Hermione, but Draco clearly saw that their relationship was strained, if not directly damaged. Not having to work with Ron was probably a blessing in disguise.

"But," Potter was saying, "until I can decide on a permanent partner, I will be temporarily partnered up with the only other Auror who does not currently have one." Oh, great. "Draco Malfoy."

As heads turned towards him, Draco was aware of the fact that there was resentment on many faces, since public sentiment still held that Draco Malfoy was not to be trusted—not as an Auror, and especially not as the partner responsible for the health and safety of the great Harry Potter. This was going to be sacrilege in the minds of many.

Potter was placing him in the spotlight. It was an indication of trust, and while one part of Draco was pleased at the recognition of his abilities and skills, another part was irritated at Potter's incessant need to meddle. A Malfoy did not require others' acceptance, and Draco had no need for the respect of the other Aurors. There were some who would no doubt expect him to express his appreciation for the honor of working alongside their hero, and he would disappoint them with his arrogance. It couldn't be helped.

As the other Aurors surrounded Ron to cheer (and probably to gossip), Draco considered himself dismissed and turned to walk back to his office. Cursed Potter was probably going to want to review all of the scrolls on his recently closed cases, and certainly all the open ones. He had only taken a few steps down the corridor when he felt someone following him. Hoping it wasn't already time for a confrontation with a close-minded Auror who wanted to reemphasize how he was a stain on the noble profession, he turned around to face the person following him.

He sighed inwardly as he faced Potter's good-natured grin.

Harry clapped a hand on his shoulder and greeted him with a forced, "Hello, partner." The expressionless face Draco gave him in return made Harry laugh out loud.

In truth, Harry was a long way from being the worst partner. Not only was Potter the (second) best Auror, he had a good head on his shoulders, good instincts, and as much as it pained him to admit it, good sense, too. He was reliable in a fight. Not much for strategy, but since Draco excelled at strategy, there was a good chance they would actually do well together. If they didn't hex each other into oblivion first, that is.

Over the years, Draco had gained a grudging respect for the Wizarding World's greatest hero. Not in the least because Potter was one of the only few in the department not to give him hassle for joining the Aurors. He actually seemed to appreciate having Draco's wand and his wits in the pursuit of the Dark wizards and witches.

So when Harry laughed at Draco's face, he responded with the expected sneer. "Partner. Didn't it occur to you to consult me first before announcing it to everyone?"

As they continued walking down the corridor, Harry said, "Of course not. You would have just said no." At Draco's glare, Harry laughed again. "Feel like blowing off this afternoon? I could use some ice cream."

Draco scoffed. "Aren't you supposed to be the boss of this place?"

"Yup. And I'm getting ice cream. As my partner, you can tag along, or you can always go back to your paperwork."

"Our paperwork," Draco corrected him. "Partner."

"Righto," Harry grinned. And Draco had the distinct feeling that somehow he would still end up doing all the paperwork. It occurred to him that even in school Harry barely ever did his homework. Hmm. Maybe he would relent on the whole getting a secretary thing, if it was brought up again. Perhaps they could call her (or him?) an Assistant Auror.

"Anyway, I'm meeting Hermione at Forever Fortescue's in 10 minutes," Harry continued, consulting the Muggle watch he insisted on wearing. "You coming along or not?"

Draco was stuck. He'd been about to tell Potter that he would very well rather beat his head on scroll after scroll of field analysis than play nice sitting a table at the ice cream parlour with him, pretending they were good friends. But Hermione was going to be there. He hadn't seen her in a few days, and since that scroll conversation had passed, he'd had no reason to initiate more contact. If he went with Potter, his new partner, he could casually reconnect with her without looking too eager.

There was a glimmer of amusement in Potter's emerald eyes as he waited for Draco's answer. It made him suspect Potter knew exactly what was running through his mind. Somehow that made the decision easier. He might as well go—Potter was clearly expecting him to, and if he declined now, it might look like he was trying to avoid Hermione. Plus, and more importantly, he really wanted to.

"Fine, I'll meet you there," Draco conceded. "I need to close up a couple files in my office, and I'll be there in a few minutes." The files were a lie since he'd be a pretty sloppy Auror if he just left files around vulnerable to being accessed by just anybody, but it was the best Draco could think of at the moment. He had no intention of arriving at the ice cream parlour tagging along behind the great Harry Potter. And maybe this way he wouldn't look as pathetic as he felt going to eat ice cream just to spend a little time with Hermione Granger.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S&R Movement: Constructive Reviews Welcome (CRW)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Freya Ishtar for the Story Banner in Chapter 1. And to my beta Brandinm05 for helping me with the rest of the aesthetics that are linked in the chapters. And to my other alpha and beta readers who have spent time on various chapters, including swirlsofblack, River in Egypt, and athenaa. They all helped make me a better writer and bring you a better story.


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